All Affectation; 'tis My Perfect Scorn; Object

Heaven Speed The Canvas, Gallantly Unfurl'd, To Furnish And Accommodate A World, To Give The Pole The Produce Of The Sun, And Knit The Unsocial Climates Into One.

War's A Game, Which, Were Their Subjects Wise, Kings Would Not Play At.

Blest Be The Art That Can Immortalize.

Domestic Happiness, Thou Only Bliss Of Paradise That Has Surviv'd The Fall!

We Bear Our Shades About Us; Self-deprived Of Other Screen, The Thin Umbrella Spread, And Range An Indian Waste Without A Tree.